Either 6 or It Isn't: No Half Measures

Let's see. There's 6-packs, six-pence of lyrics fame, 6-sixty-six from Hell, 6-cylinder motors, motorcycles with 6-speed trannies, Motel 6, 6-inch these and those, and more you'll know I omitted.



There isn't Motel Half-Dozen, not half-dozens of beer, a renown musical lyric to "sing a song of half-dozen pence," half dozen-speed transmissions in motorcycles nor are there cars with half-dozen cylinder engines.



I would't stay at Motel Half-Dozen or buy a Ford with a half-dozen under the hood just as I wouldn't respond to a half-dozen beer commercial, nor would I find appeal in a knife with a half-foot blade.



And I'll never, ever, be at work at Half Dozen A.M. unless Scott promises gourmet coffee and at least a six-pack doughnuts.



If you're nodding then I think I've demonstrated how comfy we are in our 6s and in doing so, proven that a rose by any other name just might be a pansy, at least, until I can saunter into the grocer's and ask, "Where can I find a 6-pack of eggs?" without getting a look like I'm a half-(dozen?) wit or resident alien.